The air conditioning unit keeps leaking.

The drops of water falling on the makeshift bucket would go tap-tap-tap and wake me up from my lucid dreams. I let go of the little brother I never had, his little hands hanging on the monkey bars, and slowly drift awake, thinking, I do not want to go through another new day, thank you very much.

Almost twenty-six years on earth and I am already sick of it.

The tongue is sore from licking newly scaled teeth. The heart is heavy like it was poisoned with lead. The only thing I think of doing is call upon the name of my God. One word. His name and nothing else. No other words come out. No praise or reverence, no prayers or complaints. I tug at the bed covers and pull myself in a curl; on my side, knees bent, like a baby in the womb. On the darkest days nothing feels comforting; on the darkest days, not even exhaustion has the upper hand—it would always be the sinking feeling. My parents keep texting their daily good mornings, sharing their devotionals and health-related videos. The ringing notification makes me numb. Their only daughter is dying out of sadness and they will never know. They will always think of her as the strong one, the resilient one. She will never become what they want her to be. I have an important meeting at nine. Thank God for the pandemic and working from home. I get up and call upon His name once more. No other words develop. I do not know what to say. I’d rather not check my messages. I cannot fathom the probability of loss, let alone face it headstrong.

The air conditioning unit keeps leaking in the wrong timing; my tear ducts are doing the same. Like the whole world is ending. And all I have to care about is making sure the water doesn’t flood through. But I’ve been here twenty-six years. And I know the girl who wishes not to be resilient, still has some little thing left in her to clean the mess.

The air conditioning unit.

Leaks.

Still.